“Oh, if it has ennobled the duke!” I could not help saying.
“Yes, ennobled,” she answered defiantly, “if constant love is ennobling. Don’t, please, sneer at that. I fought against him. I could not help feeling a prejudice against him, perhaps because he was a foreigner. If he interested me, it was in spite of myself. He had every barrier to break down. And, I repeat, we women are not indifferent to a man who sets to work patiently and courageously to break down these barriers–or, at least, to attempt to break them down. Every day, almost every hour, I have been reminded that he cared for me. A hundred little thoughtfulnesses and kindnesses that could not but appeal to a woman he has unceasingly shown me. While you, Dick, while you––”
There were tears in her eyes. Unconsciously she stretched out her hands to me. If I had not been blind–if I had only taken those dear hands and drawn her to me–I might have been spared hours of pain. I might have conquered then. But I was hurt, indignant, proud. She had not judged me fairly. I forgot that I had not given her the opportunity to do that.
“And I?” I said quietly, “I have been doing what you asked me to do, perhaps not in the most approved way, not so tactfully as Duke da Sestos has conducted his discreet search, doubtless; though how he can have been looking for the casket here in Venice, while he has found time to play the lover in Bellagio, I fail to see.”
We arose. Jacqueline looked at me indignantly.
“You are unjust,” she cried proudly, “and you are quite mistaken. For not only has Duke da Sestos found time to show me that he loves me, but this afternoon he brought to me the casket that belonged to the steel chest.”
“He has found the da Sestos casket! Impossible! It is impossible,” I stammered.
“It stands on the table there,” she said with quiet dignity.
I walked unsteadily to the table she indicated, and I saw the casket.
It was an exquisite thing, a jewel-case worthy of holding a prince’s diadem. It was about as long as my two hands interlocked, and a little broader than the palm of my hand. Two medallions were in each of the front and rear panels, and a medallion at either end. The design of the medallions was the loves of the gods in silver-gilt, repoussé. The cover rose to an apex, and on the apex was a nymph embraced by a satyr. The material was ebony, thickly inlaid with silver of a quaint design. I lifted the cover. There were several layers of little drawers. But I saw no sign of the springs. I saw no compartments that held the more precious of the Doge’s jewels. As I looked at it more carefully, I saw that the workmanship was not Venetian, but French. In no way did it answer to the description of the casket in the Diary of Sanudo.